


If I Fell

by mm8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Engagement, Feelings Realization, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-29
Updated: 2011-12-29
Packaged: 2019-07-08 08:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15926771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mm8/pseuds/mm8
Summary: John announces that he's marrying Sarah on Christmas Day. Will Sherlock realize his feelings and somehow win John's love before it's too late?





	If I Fell

September 16th

"I've asked Sarah to marry me."

Sherlock looked up from his current experiment on how long it took to dissolve human toes in a concentrated solution of white vinegar. This was an unexpected turn of events. "Oh?"

John seemed irritated. His face had scrunched up and he had thrown his hands up in the air. "Is that how you congratulate your flat mate on getting engaged?"

"I didn't realize that congratulations were in order." Sherlock racked his brain for a suitable reaction. Clapping his hand on John's shoulder? He'd seen it on TV programmes before but it wouldn't feel quite right. He thought back to the boring family gatherings as child. Whenever someone he spoke to had 'exciting' news he'd always saw Mycroft or Father shake the man's hand. Sherlock forced a smile and held out his hand for John. "Congratulations."

John smiled then, pleased at this reaction and took his hand. "Thank you." He nodded and headed into the kitchen.

The consulting detective let out a deep sigh. He stared out the window that overlooked Baker Street, his mind whirling. He hadn't realized that John wanted to propose marriage to Sarah; that he wanted a life commitment with her. He had never mentioned it, not to his recollection. But according to John he often deleted _important_ details such as this. 

Sherlock blinked and felt that it stung. He wiped his eyes and felt moisture. Sherlock studied his reflection in the window. Yes, yes those were tears running down his cheeks. He was crying for the first time in years.

September 23rd

He arrived back in London after a two day trip to Italy. It had been a useless venture; a potential client had fallen through. A simple case: the man had eagerly admitted that he had been the one to create the cult, ordered his members to commit violent terrorist attacks around the city, and had even carried out a bombing by himself. Dull. So dull.

What was interesting to Sherlock, however, was that his dear older brother had popped by for a visit and timed it so he'd be there when Sherlock came back to 221B. The instant he saw Mycroft, he took his suitcase and hurled it across the room at him. Mycroft, irritatingly enough, dodged it with ease. Unfortunately he had broken a rather antique looking lamp.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. He'd just come in from the kitchen, carrying two cups of tea. "What do you think you're doing!?"

"Warmly greeting my brother," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth.

"Really, Sherlock," Mycroft tutted. "I hear that _case_ in Perugia didn't go over so well."

"Piss off, Mycroft." Sherlock spat.

His flat mate's eyes seemed downcast. How interesting. 

"Oh really?" John asked. "I'm sorry to hear it didn't work out. It sounded interesting when you told me."

"Well, it was a waste of time." Sherlock looked grumpy as he grabbed John's tea and sat down in a chair across from Mycroft. The doctor just rolled his eyes and took a seat by the table with all of Sherlock's papers and various items he needed for experiments.

"I came here today for a reason, Sherlock." Mycroft gestured with his umbrella over to John. "I wanted to congratulate Dr. Watson on his recent engagement to Miss. Sawyer."

Sherlock stiffened. John's engagement. He had purposely tried deleting that knowledge from his memory. It hurt, somehow _physically_ hurt to think about it. Perhaps that's why he had gone to Italy, to get away from John and the pain he felt. If the case had gone through he would have been away for several weeks. 

"You don't have to congratulate me." John offered bashfully, turning pink. "You've done so much already, both of you."

Sherlock's interest peaked slightly. What on earth did John mean by that? Had Mycroft offered him something? He watched as John brushed away a stray strand of hair from his face with his left hand. Sherlock studied the ex-soldier's hands. Though not long fingered, as himself, there was some sort of… artistic beauty in those hands. John's hands were strong and rough. His fingertips were calloused from hours of training and hard work. The detective thought back to the last time he had brushed against those fingertips, of how those fingertips felt against his own smooth, unmarked skin. Despite the rough texture, the touch was gentle and careful, as if John was also attempting to map out the feeling of Sherlock's own skin. He shook his head. Thoughts such as these were nonsense. 

"On the contrary," Mycroft grinned. "You are my brother's friend…" He let the word hang in the air for a moment, seeing if anyone would contradict him. His gaze met Sherlock's and his eyes seemed… sad. Why?

"Actually I've been meaning to ask you, Sherlock." John piped up. "I wanted to ask you this before, but you left for Italy so fast I didn't get a chance."

He felt his mouth go dry and his throat tighten… Dammit, why was Mycroft staring at him like that?

There was a hopeful sound in his friend's voice. "Will you be my best man at my wedding?" 

Sherlock swallowed and looked away for a moment. Yes, of course. A reasonable request; he should have been expecting that. Quickly, he realized that he had not answered yet. John was waiting, eager, on the edge of his seat. He stared back into John's perfect blue eyes. "Yes, I'll be your best man."

John's face opened up. He stood up and raced to Sherlock, embracing him unexpectedly. "Oh, thank you!" 

Sherlock felt a strange pang in his heart as John hugged him tightly. He had a difficult time returning the unusual embrace; he felt rigid. More than that though, it was like how he felt when John had told him of his engagement but much _much_ , worse. 

Before Mycroft left, he accidently bumped into Sherlock on the stairs, or so it would have seemed to bystanders such as John. It was a ruse because Mycroft had slipped a piece of paper into Sherlock's pocket.

_Call me when you figure it out. Don't give up, Little Brother.  
-Mycroft_

He tore up the note into tiny pieces and threw it in the fire.

October 1st

When he came back to 221B from another failed trip (this time from Seattle, Washington) John was busy entertaining another visitor. The guest was not an irritating as his brother, but close. It was John's fiancée, Sarah. They were sitting, too closely together for Sherlock's comfort, on the sofa. Multi-tasking as it seemed, alternating between watching the television, eating some Chinese takeaway, and going over some plans that had been spread out over the coffee table.

"Oh, Sherlock," John put down his takeaway and stood up as Sherlock entered and strode to meet his flat mate. "Welcome home." John smiled, his eyes twinkling. He clasped Sherlock on the shoulder, and then slowly, delicately, ran his hand down the length of his arm. Sherlock suppressed a gasp. John's touch was electric, it felt so _good_. He was pretty sure that had just shivered with excitment. But why? He had never had this reaction to John before had he? No. _Yes._ He needed more data.

"Hi there, Sherlock." Sarah greeted, standing up as well. Her long brown hair bounced as she walked. She interjected herself between him and John. Sherlock wanted to growl at her, an animal instinct that he quickly repressed. Sarah held up her left hand for the consulting detective. "Isn't it beautiful?" She reflected, wiggling her ring finger.

The detective grabbed her hand and examined the ring. It was a generous size. Square cut, a popular style. Most likely half of a carat. The clarity was exquisite; it shone brightly. It must have cost John at least three month's income. It seemed to make sense now, when he put the pieces together. Why John had been bothering him to get some work that made an actual salary. Why he'd been insisting on buying generic milk, tea and other grocery items instead of name brands. He'd been saving to buy _this_. Sherlock released her hand as though it had burned him. He speedily ran out the options in his mind for something people would normal say in this situation. "Very good. Very good choice, John."

Yet when he looked at his friend, he was surprised to find that John was rigid, and pale, almost as if he were under some kind of stress. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly. This fascinated him. John bit his lip and looked away, then back again. His eyes bore into Sherlock's. There was something there he had difficulty identifying… Was it hurt? Pain? Guilt? He started to reach for John's hand—just one touch—

"Did John tell you?" Sarah offered.

The spell between himself and John was suddenly broken. Sherlock shook himself and turned his attention to Sarah. "What was John supposed to tell me?" He spoke half-hearted. His mind was on others things, like this new, or perhaps not so new development between him and his flat mate.

"We've set the date for the wedding!" She smiled enthusiastically. "We're getting married on Christmas Day!" Sarah leaned over and hugged John. 

Sherlock felt his heart ache once more. "Christmas Day." His thoughts solidified. "Why, that's only a few months away. Why so soon?"

John cleared his throat. "Your brother. He's paying for the wedding. He forced it on us. Wouldn't take no for an answer, and I couldn't really say _no_ to him, now could I? His only request however, was that we be married by the New Year. Sarah and I discussed it, and thought it was a wonderful idea to be married on Christmas Day. All of our friends and family around us, festive spirit in the air…" Once the doctor saw the pained expression on the detective's face he asked, "Is that alright with you? We could change—"

"No. No, it's perfectly alright." Sherlock spoke out loud, but in his mind he was cursing his brother.

Later that night in the privacy of his bedroom, Sherlock furiously dialed Mycroft's number.

"So you've figured it out then? It took you long enough, Little Brother." Mycroft's tone was slightly amused.

"Is this what you had planned, Mycroft?" He spat out the name. "Paying for John's wedding? What do you hope to gain?"

There was a brief silence, and then Mycroft returned, disappointment in his voice. "You _haven't_ sorted out your feelings." There was an irritated sigh on the other end of the phone. "Don't call me again until you have deduced the problem with that brain of yours." There was a slight pause, and his brother's voice softened. "Good luck."

"What--?" Sherlock asked, but the line had gone dead. 

Frustrated, he threw his mobile against the wall and curled into the fetal position on his bed. He tugged at his hair, so tempted to pull it out. 

What, _what_ did Mycroft what he to figure out so desperately? What about John?

He rolled off the bed and began to pace the length of his bedroom. Did Mycroft somehow _know_? Know that he yearned for John's words and companionship; so much he thought he'd die without it? 

Sherlock shook his head. These thoughts were useless. John was getting _married_ now. 

He pressed himself against the wall and let out a guttural breath.

October 7th

"Are you excited about getting married, Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock shot John a brief glance to see his reaction to the detective inspector's question. 

John nodded vaguely. "Yes." He cleared his throat as if there were phlegm caught in it then spoke a bit louder. "Yes, very excited." But he did not sound very lively. 

"Ah," Lestrade said and changed the subject. "So, if we're all done here, can you," he directed himself to John, "go and tell my team that it's alright to come back while Sherlock and I discuss what he's found."

They both stared at Lestrade. This was completely out of character for him. Normally, he'd let John be here as Sherlock explained to him what he deduced from the body. John would be amazed and call Sherlock brilliant, and he'd get this warm feeling in his chest…

"Um, yes. Alright, then." John took two steps toward the 'real' police team and suddenly stopped, turning on his heel at Sherlock. "Don't run off anywhere without me, okay?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly, rising. He wanted to go with John; it seemed wrong not to. But he had business to take care of with Lestrade. He watched as John retreated, feeling a strange longing to call out his name, to make him stop and come back to him…

"So," Lestrade cleared his throat. "John and Sarah? How do you feel about all this, then?"

Sherlock shot a speculative glance at the detective inspector. "What do you mean?"

Lestrade lifted an eyebrow. "Well, I thought…" He paused hoping Sherlock would understand his meaning, when he clearly didn't he heaved a sigh. "I thought that you two…"

The consulting detective furrowed his brow. Slowly for his part, he clicked Lestrade's meaning together and looked away, abashed. "We're not like that."

"You two definitely fooled me, then." Lestrade buried his hands in his coat pockets and began to shift his weight from foot to foot. 

"Yes," Sherlock said mournfully. "Yes, we did, didn't we?" His gaze drifted to where John was talking to Anderson and Donovan. He was leaning casually against one of the police cars, sipping a cup of coffee. To his surprise, John returned his gaze. He looked so… 

"What did you find out from the body, Sherlock? Quickly, you only have about two more minutes." 

The consulting detective unwillingly snapped his gaze away from John. "What? Oh yes…"

October 19th

On the day Sherlock finally figured it out, it was unseasonably cold and windy, there was a heavy downpour of rain, and he had walled himself up in his bedroom. John and Sarah were in the common area prattling on about wedding matters such as the venue (the church that Sarah had gone to since she was a child, however, the Tudor style Ironmongers' Hall would be lovely that time of year), their wedding colors (red and green for Christmas or white and blue to imitate snow and ice), and what store they should go to for their wedding gift registry? It was too much for Sherlock and he had barricaded himself away.

He needed to evaluate things. John. His life. His feelings. He began to pace, hands behind his back.

First, how did he feel about John? The unedited truth? John had been the first person to really accept him for who he was. The same, he realized could be said for Victor Trevor, but Sherlock had treated Victor more as an experiment, collecting and analyzing data. He didn't do that with John, not entirely. He valued John as a person, a friend. But he had a burning desire for _more_.

Oh, quickly now, he had to identify this! 

How did he feel when John was in the same room? Happy. Yes, very happy. Sherlock yearned to be in the company of his friend. The doctor was perhaps the only person that could almost keep up with him intellectually. But it was more than just intellect. John understood him, could make him laugh so hard he thought he would piss himself, and put up with his eccentricities. Their friendship was something he cherished. There was an extraordinary level of trust and loyalty between them. The ex-soldier had even gone as far as killing a man in order to save Sherlock's life just hours after they formally met. Sherlock knew in his heart that there was only one man on this Earth that'd be would gladly sacrifice his life for.

John. 

How did he feel with others around them? Possessive? Jealous? Yes. He seemed to get angry when John and Sarah cuddled on the sofa, or whenever she kissed him or touched John in any way. Was this normal in friendship? Sherlock thought of others whom he might consider friends. He had no inkling of jealously toward others like Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. Sherlock didn't have dreams or thoughts of them in a sensual way. Those dreams were reserved for John only. 

He thought back to what Mycroft had said, _"Don't call me again until you know how you feel about Dr. Watson."_. Then his mind wandered to Lestrade's comment to him the week before. _"I thought that you two…"_

Abruptly, Sherlock stopped pacing. His mind was flying, the pieces to the puzzle fitting together… His thoughts, actions, other's observations… His eyes bulged.

He was in love. In love with John.

But this was absurd. He was a sociopath and by definition was _incapable_ of caring, let alone loving another human being. Had his diagnosis been incorrect? No, there was more to life than John Watson. There was the _Game_. 

_Keep telling yourself that, old boy._ Sherlock thought grudgingly. Five years ago all he needed to live was cocaine. Before that was it was Victor… and even earlier than that it was his brother. And none of those things compared to how he felt when he was with John. 

So there it was then. He, Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, the _freak_ , was in love with Dr. John Watson. He felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His heart felt lighter somehow, as ridiculous as it sounded. 

His face fell once more.

John was getting married in sixty-seven days.

John was getting _married_.

_His_ John.

Sherlock knew that he would not indulge his brother and admit that he'd be in the dark about his own feelings. No, he would not call Mycroft. Not yet anyway.

He would woo John in his own way. And there was the problem.

October 21st – Tactic Number 1

To Sherlock it seemed realistic that for John to understand how he felt, and to comprehend that he appreciated him, would be to do something for John that the doctor did often in his daily life.

Making a cup of hot tea for John couldn't be that difficult, not for a man of his caliber. Could it?

It took him nearly twenty minutes of maneuvering through the cabinets and his experiments until he found the right cupboard that contained all of their supply of tea. Sherlock looked astounded by the multitude of different types of tea. There was black tea, green tea, decaffeinated tea, and herbal tea. And each one of those types had sub-categories as well! Lemon, mango, spiced chai, chamomile, and so much more. How was tea this complicated? And to his dismay, he was not sure which one was John's absolute favorite.

He shrugged and pulled out a teabag from each container thinking he had better get started before John got home from work. He still needed to figure out how to use a kettle.

* * *

Five minutes past six o'clock, Sherlock's ears perked up as he heard the door to 221B close and footsteps jog up the steps. His heart seemed his beat harder.

"What the--?!" John exclaimed. He was clearly at the top of the stairs but was unseen from Sherlock's line of vision. "Sherlock?!"

"Hm?" The detective mumbled. He'd been lying on the sofa, face in the cushions for quite some time. Sherlock sat halfway up as he heard John approaching.

"Did," John's face was contorted in confusion. "Was there some kind of Mad Hatter Tea Party and I wasn't invited?"

"Whatever do you mean? Mad Hatter?"

Sherlock silently observed as John's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. "Oh, please. Don't tell me you deleted that too? Lewis Carroll? Alice in Wonderland? You know, 'Have a very happy _un_ birthday? Johnny Depp? Why is a raven like a-- Oh God, you have no idea what I am talking about do you?"

Lewis Caroll. Unbirthdays. Why is a raven like a… Sherlock made a mental note to himself to research all of things. "I merely observed that every day when you come home from work you have a cup of tea. To save time and energy I made you your cuppa."

John wildly gestured around the flat. "Then why is there… at _least_ fifty cups of tea?" He shot Sherlock a frantic look. "Wait, we don't have this many mugs! Where did you get all of these?"

The detective shrugged, "Borrowed them from here and there. It's not my fault that you have too many kinds of tea." He leaned forward, his voice full of intrigue. "By the way, you why do you need several types of the same flavor of tea? For example, you have vanilla in both decaffeinated and—"

"Yuck!" John had picked up a mug near him, filled with red raspberry herbal tea, and immediately spit the liquid out almost as soon as he had tasted it. "Sherlock, this tea is cold. It's practically _freezing_. How long ago did you make of all these?"

"The last cup I made was about an hour and a half ago. You came home later than I expected."

"Sherlock," the ex-solider shook his head. "I always come home at this time after I get done at the clinic."

The detective pursed his lips. "Yes well…" He cleared his throat.

"It was a nice gesture nonetheless." John smiled genuinely, and Sherlock could swear that his stomach was doing summersaults.

October 23rd – Tactic Number 2

He'd seen this done on TV programmes and in books he was forced to read as child hundreds of times. He would make John see his was desirable.

Sherlock couldn't help but wipe the grin off his face when John came bounding up the stairs with the day's mail. 

"Sherlock, do you know why you've received all this mail?" John held up a fistful of envelopes.

The detective put down the book he was reading and set it aside. "No John, I don't know why I would have an unusual amount of mail today."

"Or why," John flipped over the envelopes, "they do they all smell strongly of cologne? It has hearts all over it too."

He shrugged. "I really don't know. Is there a return—?"

There was a quiet knock on their door and they both turned to see a nervous looking Mrs. Hudson. "Hello, Dears." She said in her soft, sweet voice. "Sorry if I am interrupting anything, but Sherlock, dear, I think you may have a secret admirer of some sort. A man just came to the front door and brought in at least a dozen bouquets of roses for you."

John's nostrils flared. "Did the man say who they were from? Did you get a good look at him?"

"Ah," their landlady thought for a moment. "Oh yes." She pulled out a card that looked like it had been attached to one of the bouquets. "Victor Trevor. Does that sound familiar?"

Sherlock gave her a courtesy smile. "Yes. Thank you for telling me about my gift. Can you send them up for me later?"

Mrs. Hudson turned away grumbling, "Not your housekeeper…"

The moment she was out of sight, John turned to face Sherlock, his face alit with anger. "Who the hell is Victor Trevor?"

The consulting detective was only slightly taken aback. "An old friend."

"A friend? Really?" John huffed, "What kind of _friend_ sends you love letters and roses? Hm?" The ex-soldier was red in the face.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. This was intriguing. "We were lovers a long time ago, John." He spoke so soft he wondered if John even heard him. "I haven't seen him for many years."

The change in John's expression was fascinating to the detective. He could see John's mind ticking and clicking things into place. "But I thought you were… You said you were married to your work? I thought…"

"That I am a virgin?" Sherlock scoffed. "That I have no sexual desires or feelings? No, John. Your assumptions were incorrect. I am a man after all. "He looked straight into his flat mate's eyes, "I have needs and desires."

He watched as John began to tremble, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. By God, how the detective wanted to stop this game and touch him, to madly caress every inch of John's skin, to memorize how sensual it would feel. But he couldn't break character, not yet. John had to make the first move.

John's Adam's apple bobbed and his voice trembled only slightly. "I, uh. I'm rather tired, Sherlock. I had an awful day at work. I'm going to bed early. Good night."

Sherlock watched John's retreating back as climbed the stairs to his own bedroom. The detective heaved out a great sigh and sunk lower into his arm chair. Even though John had not done something such as declaring his love, Sherlock felt as if he won a major battle.

October 26th – Tactic Number 3

He needed to drive home the point to John that he wasn't asexual or some sort of celibate monk.

The doctor barged into the common area. "Sherlock, what the hell is this?"

He had to stop himself from smirking. "That's my laundry."

"No, no, no. _This_ ," John held up a fistful of colorful and festive thongs and g-strings, "is not your laundry. It is certainly not mine so the only _reasonable_ explanation I can think of is that some weirdo has broken into our flat."

Sherlock frowned. This wasn't going as planned. "Don't be absurd!" He pulled away the blanket that had been covering his lap to reveal a novelty reindeer g-string. He was pleased to see that John's eyes were now focused on his crotch and that his face was pink.

"I…" John's lip trembled. "I'm going to—" The doctor's eyes never left Sherlock's groin as he slowly backed out of the room and retreated up the stairs.

Not a second after Sherlock heard John's bedroom door click shut, the detective's cell phone rang, David Bowie's Big Brother, his selected ring tone to indicate that it was Mycroft calling.

"You are quite the fool, Sherlock." Mycroft sounded positively dull and the line went dead.

November 2nd

He was only doing this because of John. He wouldn't succumb to this when he was young at fancy parties or for Mycroft when he was invited to a political gala. But for John he would don an uncomfortable black tuxedo for a wedding he didn't approve of.

But Sherlock had to admit that alone in the generous sized dressing room with John that he had to resist ravishing his flat mate. John was sexually pleasing when he was simply wearing a knit sweater but wearing a tuxedo seemed to enhance his appeal. The tuxedo accentuated his long torso. Sherlock imagined tearing off the tux and licking…

"How do I look?" John outstretched his arms, presenting himself.

Sherlock turned away but found that it was useless since he could view John's reflection in one of the mirrors. "You look great. Dashing, really."

"So do you." Glancing over at Sherlock through the mirror, John eyed him. "I bet Victor will think you look handsome as well."

He blinked and seemed dazed. "Excuse me?"

"You received the invitation didn't you? I left it on your violin case. It specifically mentions that everyone can bring a plus one. My sister is brining Clara since they are dating again. I think your brother mentioned that he planned to bring his assistant... Anthea or whatever her real name is. I only assumed that since… red roses… kinky pants… that you and this Victor Trevor were an item."

"No," Sherlock quickly replied, his voice louder than he intended it to be. He grasped hold of John's arm and looked into his eyes. It was now or never, wasn't it? "My heart only belongs to one man in this world."

The time passed much too slow for Sherlock. 

Their eyes were locked, John's were wide, his mouth ajar. Slowly, mind-numbingly slowly, Sherlock watched as John pressed his body against his. The detective gasped when he felt the doctor's erection rub against his thigh. John reached up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and kissed him. Sherlock felt like he was on fire, this kiss was none he had ever had before. John tasted so delicious. The detective pinned John against the wall, deepening the kiss, exploring John's mouth. The doctor's rough hands roamed Sherlock's body, caressing his chest, back and even daring to squeeze his bum. Sherlock pulled back from the kiss and began to nuzzle John's neck.

"Oh, God." John moaned and bucked his hips. "I've wanted this forever."

Immediately, Sherlock stopped and pulled back. "Then why are you marrying her?" 

John stared back, mouth opening and closing like a fish, unable to give an answer.

"I need to know, John, that you love me more than her or this cannot continue." Quickly, he grabbed his discarded clothing and opened the dressing room door. "I think it would be best if we spent some time apart so you can make your decision." Sherlock closed the door without looking back to see the expression on John's face. But he assumed that it was similar to his own.

November 29th

He hadn't seen John for twenty-seven days. After he left the shop, he had made a detour to a local coffee shop to think for a few hours. When he arrived home at 221B John had already packed his things and left. According to Mrs. Hudson, he had informed her that he was going to be living with his fiancée for now on.

So that was it then. John had made his choice.

John didn't come by crime scenes anymore. Anderson and Donovan kept harassing him, 'Oh, where's your boyfriend gone too? Got tired of you, freak?'. Lestrade would give him mournful looks and clapped him on the shoulder. Sherlock's collection of the detective inspector's badges had grown to over one hundred now.

He was sure he had become more irritable since John's absence. He loathed human company, barking at anyone who came near him, even poor Mrs. Hudson when she came by to help him with his laundry to make him some dinner. 

Sherlock's mood didn't improve the day he came home from a crime scene (domestic quarrel, crime of passion, boring) to find Mycroft lounging in his favorite chair.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft? I'm not in a mood to tolerate you. Don't you have better things to do like rigging an election?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Really, Dear Brother?" He heaved a sigh, "Your flat is a complete disgrace and you are skin and bones. Mummy will not be happy."

"Don't bring Mummy into this!" Sherlock spat, glaring at his brother, then continued to take off his scarf and coat.

"Why didn't you call me, Sherlock? This whole mess could have been avoided if you hadn't let your precious pride get in the way."

Sherlock sunk into the sofa. "Oh, really? And how could have you advised me on matters of the heart?"

Mycroft let out a hearty laugh, "Sherlock, unlike you I have been in love before—"

"I was in a relationship with Victor for five years—"

"Your _relationship_ as you call it, was a joke and you know it." Mycroft's face grew serious. "Dr. Watson has been the first man that you have completely fallen for and it scares you. The same goes for Dr. Watson as well. However, you are too stupid to realize what is right in front of you."

Mycroft stood up, placed a piece of paper on a table and left.

After he heard the door of Mycroft's car close and drive away, Sherlock snatched up the note. On it was an address. 

The address for Sarah's flat. Where John lived.

December 8th

He sat at the bus stop that was across the street from the flat for half of the day. The buses came but he never got on. Sherlock's eyes were locked on the door of a certain building occasionally glancing to a third floor window on the right hand side. He hadn't seen Sarah or John enter or exit the flat. But they or at least John should arrive home from the clinic in three, two, one…

And there he was. 

John exited a cab alone. He seemed slightly thinner. He was using his cane once more which troubled Sherlock. John had some difficulty bending down to pick up the parcel that Sherlock had left at the doorstep. 

In the parcel Sherlock had carefully packed his favorite blue scarf along with a note that said _'Come back to me, John'_.

Before the doctor had time to react to the name on the left-hand corner on the box, Sherlock stood up and began to head back to Baker Street, making sure to blend in with the crowd.

December 20th

A mournful sound came from 221 B. Sherlock had been playing on his violin nonstop for the last seventy-two hours straight.

The detective knew he had failed. John would be married to Sarah in five days and he'd never see him ever again. Sherlock had hoped that John would have made some sort of contact with him regarding their future. The only news he had heard was an invitation him to the rehearsal dinner on the 23rd. If he wasn't the best man and if this wasn't John's wedding he would have declined.

He abruptly stopped the motion of his bow. He could have sworn he heard light footsteps on the stairs. If he had, they stopped, so the detective continued playing 'The Devil's Trill Sonata'. He lost himself in the music. It was a difficult composition and he was putting his soul into it. He wouldn't be shocked if his fingers bled or if the carefully strung strings broke from the tension they were being put under. After many minutes, the last note was over he dramatically held his bow in the air.

The sound of applause came from the doorway. Sherlock whipped his head and dropped the bow to the floor.

John.

He was here and wearing Sherlock's scarf around his neck.

Without hesitation, he set down his violin and bounded across the room to John, being met halfway. Sherlock cupped John's face and ghosting his lips over the doctor's. 

"I've left her." John stated, breathlessly. "I tried to forget about you but I couldn't do it. I never could. I'm sorry." He leaned in and kissed Sherlock chastely. "I love you."

Sherlock gasped, looked into John's eyes to see if he was telling the truth. There was nothing of deceit or guilt. Not anymore. There was happiness and hope. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and buried his face in John's neck. "Welcome home."


End file.
